


fresh as hell-o

by raedear



Series: you had me at hello (fresh) [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Domestic, Flirting, Fluff, Getting Together, Joe can't cook but damn if he isn't pretty, M/M, Meet-Cute, cooking together is something that can be so intimate actually, delivery person Nicky di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29447904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedear/pseuds/raedear
Summary: Nicky has to clear his throat before he speaks again. Joe clenches his fist triumphantly as casually as he can.‘You can’t boil an egg, but you think you can cook mushroom risotto?’Joe playfully bashes Nicky’s shoulder with the back of his hand. It definitely isn’t a thinly-veiled excuse to finally touch his shoulders.‘It’s only six steps, Nicky, it can’t be that bad.’Nicky shudders, and Joe tells himself it was in reaction to finally being touched by him, and not in disgust at what he said.Joe has a crush on his Hello Fresh delivery person. Nicky just wants Joe to have an actually edible meal for once, even if he has to make it himself.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: you had me at hello (fresh) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166849
Comments: 130
Kudos: 475





	fresh as hell-o

**Author's Note:**

> This is a totally normal and proportionate response to getting a text saying 'Nicky' would be delivering my package this weekend. 
> 
> Thanks to [Tess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/pseuds/thewalrus_said) for beta-ing, and for being generally wonderful. 
> 
> Buon appetito

Joe's not too proud to admit that he's showing off a little. He doesn't really spend lazy Saturday afternoons in his flat in his tightest workout shirt and the running leggings that cling to every inch of his legs. Usually, he'd be in his comfiest jammies, all paint flecks and tears in odd places. 

That was before.

Now, he has a standing date with _Nicky_. Nicky, who every Saturday afternoon, somewhere between noon and six, brings him his meal subscription order of the week. What started as a vague, somewhat half-hearted attempt at self-improvement has long since morphed into a weekly exercise in self-flagellation. 

No one should make the DPD uniform look as good as Nicky does. The ugly shorts, the bulky shirts, all of it should be a recipe for disaster. And yet. Nicky's broad shoulders stretch the shirts obscenely; his legs have Joe considering what every regency romance he's ever read has said about a well-turned ankle in a new light. 

Nicky dropped his scanner as he walked away six weeks before and bent to pick it up, and Joe squeezed his delivery box so hard he burst three holes in it with his nails. Nicky had turned and waved again after. His cheeks had been red and his mouth very slightly twisted in embarrassment. Joe had burst two more holes in the side of the box and had to put the ice pack from inside it on his face when he shut the door. 

So, now Joe makes an effort when he knows Nicky will see him. It's paying off, he thinks. He's not oblivious; he sees the way Nicky's eyes linger on him as he signs for his delivery. He knows Nicky watches his arms flex when he takes the box from him each week (he flexes with very conscious effort, after all, and he'd be very put out if Nicky _didn't_ watch him flex for him). He just doesn't know what to do about any of it. 

Plus, Nicky very clearly (and kindly, Joe has to admit) judges him for his cooking skills. Which is fair. The second week Nicky delivered Joe's order, he very quietly asked him how the meals turned out, and Joe found himself explaining that it turns out rice actually needs a _little_ attention. Maybe. And also maybe he had to throw out the pot he cooked it in, and had a takeaway for his dinner that night after all.

Nicky had huffed a tiny laugh and shook his head as he accepted his scanner back, and Joe was a goner from that moment on. 

He wants to say he's improving, but it turns out even simple recipes with step by step instructions and both picture _and_ video guides are beyond him. So far he's destroyed at least two of each of the three meals he buys every week, and the ones he didn't destroy all came with most of the parts already cooked, he just had to add the finishing touches. Nicky has been more and more vocal in despairing of him. Maybe he'd be better at this if it wasn't so fun to see Nicky bite back a grin and shake his head ruefully at him, but who knows.

This week, Joe puts a little more effort in than usual, just for his own gratification. He teases his curls just so, until they're hanging exactly right around his cheeks. He rubs his beard with oil till it's as soft and luxurious as it can be. And he rubs his favourite cologne behind his ears and on his wrists. If anyone were to ask, he has a whole lecture on the positive effects of treating yourself, and dressing up for your own pleasure. It's all true, inasmuch as he's absolutely lying and is in fact dressing up the way a peacock dresses up to impress a peahen.

_Your driver Nicky will deliver your parcel today between 16:49-17:49, you do have options if you're not going to be in -_

Joe scoffs at his phone. Not going to be in? For Nicky? Please. (Somewhere, on the far side of the city, Booker shakes his head at the thought of Joe, and wonders why).

Nicky's been delivering boxes to Joe for 8 weeks now, and Joe has this down to a fine art. At the top of the hour, he does rounds of push-ups in four minute sets, and then rests for six minutes. By the time Nicky knocks on the floor, he's either breathing a little hard and flushed with effort, or he's sleepy-eyed and dewy with recent exercise. Both have been very successful in previous weeks. This week, Nicky knocks just as Joe hits the end of the first minute of his third cycle, and Joe's curls are damp around his neck and ears. From the way Nicky's eyes dart to them and sharply away when Joe opens the door, it's a good look for him. He tries to keep his grin from being too shark-like. 

'Nicky!' Is it normal to sound so delighted at the sight of a DPD delivery person? He doubts it, but carries on. Nicky is shockingly pretty; anyone would be delighted to see him.

'Good afternoon, Joe.' Nicky's soft accent kills him anew every time he speaks, and Joe barely manages to restrain the smitten sigh building up in his chest.

'How's my favourite delivery-person on this lovely Saturday then?' It's raining like the world forgot to water its plants for a week and is panicking about it now. Nicky is dry only by virtue of the weird layout of Joe's house. Nicky just shrugs with one of his tiny smiles, and hands Joe his box.

'What's on the menu this week, chef?' Nicky has a habit of looking up through his eyelashes while he gets the scanner ready for Joe's signature that never fails to devastate him.

He's actually quite excited for this week; he's trying something truly new, as opposed to just picking what looks easiest.

'Mushroom risotto!' he says, triumphant with absolutely no cause to be. 'I'm looking forward to it; I've always wanted to try it but I hate ordering food I'm not sure I'll like in restaurants when I know there's something I love that I can have instead.'

Nicky's frozen in place on his doorstep, stylus poised above the touchscreen of his scanner. He's never looked at Joe quite like this before, and he doesn't exactly know what to make of it. 

'Nicky?'

He seems to shake himself, and he takes a deep breath.

'Last week, Joe, you nearly set your kitchen on fire trying to sauté peppers.' He's speaking slowly, and still giving Joe that odd look. Joe tries a winsome smile in response.

'That was last week! This week I managed to make stir-fry with no major disasters!' His jovial tone is slightly at odds with the fact he cut his finger while preparing the carrots and managed to overcook the rice somehow, but Nicky doesn't need to know that. From the way he narrows his eyes though, it's clear he suspects. 

'The stir-fry came with a sample pack of microwave rice.’ Joe barely suppresses a flinch, and doesn’t ask Nicky how he knew that. ‘Risotto requires constant attention and a light touch.' Nicky's voice is stern in a way Joe's never heard from him before. He's shockingly into it, and would be _very_ interested in hearing it in other, more fun contexts than Nicky criticising his cooking abilities.

'I looked at the recipe,' Joe says airily, turning to place the box in the house so he can give Nicky his full attention (if that allows him to bend at a particularly attractive angle, who's to say). 'It doesn't look that hard, just a lot of stirring and waiting. What's the worst that can happen?' 

Nicky's already shockingly wide eyes get wider with every word, although Joe catches the extra beat it takes him to raise them from below his waist. Neither comment on it, but Nicky's cheeks flush, and Joe's dimples get deeper. 

Nicky has to clear his throat before he speaks again. Joe clenches his fist triumphantly as casually as he can. 

‘You can’t boil an egg, but you think you can cook mushroom risotto?’ 

Joe playfully bashes Nicky’s shoulder with the back of his hand. It definitely isn’t a thinly-veiled excuse to finally touch his shoulders. 

‘It’s only six steps, _Nicky_ , it can’t be that bad.’ 

Nicky shudders, and Joe tells himself it was in reaction to finally being touched by him, and not in disgust at what he said.

'You have to know when the rice is done so you can add the cream and butter at just the right moment,' he says, his voice is slightly breathless for all he's still stern. 'If you get it wrong you'll be eating concrete for your dinner, at best.'

Joe shakes his head and waves a hand dismissively. 

'There's no cream or butter in the recipe, it'll be fine.'

From the way Nicky rears back, scanner hanging loose and forgotten at his hip, eyes wider than ever with shock, it was the wrong thing to say. 

'No butter?' He doesn't even seem to be speaking to Joe anymore as he slips into rapid and frustrated Italian, ending with an emphatic tapping of his finger to the palm of his other hand, looking expectantly at Joe.

Joe, mid-crisis as he is at Nicky's sudden and passionate Italian diatribe, twists his hips to a slightly different angle and mildly regrets putting his box down. Nicky continues to stare at him before seeming to realise all in one burst that Joe can't understand him, because he blushes furiously and drops his gaze, and rubs the back of his neck with one offensively broad and attractive hand. He clears his throat again, and Joe has to breathe very deeply to relax himself.

'I said, risotto should be decadent and rich, and I don't feel this will do it justice. If—' He breaks off, looking away again like he's rallying his strength. 'If you like, if you wanted, I could make it for you. Not from a kit.' Nicky is very, _very_ red now, right up to the tips of his ears. Joe hears a noise akin to a whistling kettle in his ears, and has to shake his head to clear it. Nicky starts nodding, looking suddenly frantic to be away, and Joe has to catch him by the wrist to keep him in place. 

‘I would love that, Nicky. Are you sure?’ No one has ever in his life accused Joe of being understated. They would be impressed with him, frankly, for how chill he sounds in this moment, faced with Nicky blushing sweetly and offering to cook him food. 

Nicky’s still bright red, but he’s smiling again. Joe can feel his pulse under his thumb, and he strokes his wrist gently before he lets him go. 

‘I’m sure. Does 7 o’clock suit?’ Joe’s nodding before Nicky even finishes speaking. It could be 2am and he’d be delighted to see him. Nicky smiles at him, lopsided and sweet, still red around the edges. He holds out his scanner, finally, and Joe signs without looking away from his face. ‘I’ll see you then,’ Nicky says, stepping back from Joe’s door. He waves, an awkward little wiggle of his hand, and turns and marches quickly away. Joe finally gives in and sighs like a smitten cartoon character as he slumps against his doorframe. 

The delighted glow of Nicky inviting himself over to cook Joe dinner lasts exactly as long as it takes Joe to remember he hasn’t cleaned his kitchen in three days. The pile of dirty dishes in his sink is quite frankly terrifying, and the number of takeaway boxes cluttering his counters would have made his _baba_ tear his hair out in despair of him. All of his plans for taking his time in getting ready and laying out his nicest place-settings vanish in the face of having to scrub his entire house from top to bottom. 

—

Nicky knocks on Joe’s door promptly at 7. Joe’s managed to clean the house, light candles in strategic places, and tidy himself up a bit, but only just. He’s still buttoning the cuff of his shirt sleeve as he opens the door. Is he wearing a shirt that’s an inch too small around his chest? Only God and his tailor know for sure. 

Once again, Joe has miscalculated. Nicky isn’t wearing his uniform anymore. He’s wearing a nice blue shirt. It brings out his eyes, and shows Joe very clearly just how unflattering his uniform shirt actually is, as the span of his shoulders and the nip of his waist nearly brings him to his knees there and then.

‘Nicky!’ Surely his delight is more understandable now that Nicky is on his doorstep with his hands full of food for them to _share_ , and not just food for Joe to gradually destroy throughout the week. ‘I’m so happy to see you, come in come in, let me help you.’ Joe lifts the bags from Nicky’s hands over his protests and leans in to brush a kiss against his cheek. Nicky abruptly stops arguing in favour of blushing again and biting his lip to hide a smile. Joe would normally be a little more circumspect in his flirting, but he figures that Nicky volunteering to cook for him is as good a signal as any that his flirting is welcome, and not a weird discomfort in his day. 

Nicky follows him in, toeing off his shoes at the door without having to be asked, looking around himself curiously at the many paintings and pictures that clutter the walls in his hall. If Joe feels particularly smug that Nicky lingers over one of his _own_ paintings, that’s nobody else’s business. They step through to the kitchen together, Joe trying his hardest to restrain himself from plucking excitedly at Nicky’s shirt with his free hand.

‘I can’t tell you how excited I am to try your cooking—’ Nicky cuts Joe off before he can finish his thought. 

‘You have a shockingly nice kitchen for someone who can’t cook.’ Nicky looks nonplussed when Joe looks over his shoulder at him, his eyes very wide and focussed on the middle-distance, somewhere between Joe’s counters and the void of personal embarrassment. Joe can’t help but laugh at him, and nudges his shoulder familiarly with his own.

‘That’s fair. I wish I could take credit for it, but it came like this when I bought the house.’ Nicky’s right, the granite counters and the double oven are wasted on him, but they do look nice. 

In an effort to not appear completely useless in the kitchen to Nicky, Joe’s laid out every cooking implement he thought he might need, as well as the nicer random ingredients he’s impulse bought in various late night wanders in the supermarket. Nicky looks over them curiously as he wanders, familiarising himself with the space. Joe sits Nicky’s bags on the counter and turns around to lean against it, crossing his legs at his ankles and his arms under his pecs. He might be laying it on a little thick, but he wants Nicky to like him, and he’s not above showing himself off. From the way Nicky licks his lip before he bites it and looks away, it’s working. 

‘So, chef, what do we do first?’ asks Joe, smiling broadly at Nicky. Nicky smiles back, and reaches for his bags.

‘We have many mushrooms to chop, and plenty of garlic to peel and crush. We’d better get started.’ 

—

Half an hour later sees Joe sat at his breakfast bar pouting and holding his thumb to make sure the plasters stick as Nicky scolds him from across the counter. 

‘How do you cut your own thumb not once but _twice_ , Joe?’ Nicky’s shaking his head as he quickly and neatly chops his way through the remaining pile of mushrooms. He’s absolutely confident in his motions, and Joe is fascinated by the firm grip of his fingers on the largest of his own kitchen knives. In the time it took Joe to chop one carton (and his own thumb, twice, yes thank you Nicky) Nicky had peeled and crushed a full head of garlic, neatly diced a small pile of shallots, and set a pan of stock onto the cooker to simmer gently. ‘I thought you were exaggerating how bad at cooking you were. Now I wonder if I should stop delivering to you as a kind of public service.’ 

‘What service would that provide?’ Joe can’t help but ask. Nicky levels him with a cutting stare, but Joe can see the smile playing around the edges of his lips.

‘It would take pressure off the local hospital, obviously,’ says Nicky with a sniff, setting aside the mushrooms. He leans down out of sight for a moment, and when he stands back up he has a bottle of white wine in his hands. He offers it to Joe with a questioning quirk of his eyebrow, and smiles when Joe nods. ‘Can you be trusted to open and pour this, or should I be ready with the first aid kit again?’

‘You’re a regular comedian, _Nicholas_. I never would have guessed,’ says Joe, tipping his nose in the air. He stands though, and goes to fetch glasses for them from the cupboard above the sink. Behind him, Nicky scoffs. 

‘ _Nicolò_ ,’ he says, his accent clearer than ever as he stresses each syllable. Joe looks back over his shoulder curiously at him, pausing in place. Nicky looks back at him, almost but not quite glaring. ‘My name is Nicolò, not Nicholas.’ 

‘Duly noted,’ says Joe with a wink. ‘I’ll be sure not to make the same mistake again, _Nicolò_.’

Joe’s very certain he’s not imagining the very slight shiver of Nicky’s shoulders as he says his name, but he doesn’t comment on it. He snags the bottle of wine from beside him instead, and busies himself with opening it. He stands as close to Nicky as politeness will let him, and has to duck his head to grin when Nicky leans that little bit closer to him. Nicky’s fingers brush his own when he accepts his glass of wine, and warmth sparks all the way up Joe’s arm.

‘What now?’ he asks, in lieu of what he really wants to ask, which is if Nicky wouldn’t mind him kissing his neck a little. 

‘Now we have to actually start cooking,’ says Nicky. He bumps his hip against Joe’s to move him out of the way as he turns to face the cooker. ‘Can you be trusted to hand me things without causing yourself harm?’ Joe laughs sarcastically at him, but dutifully hands him the olive oil when he points at it. 

It’s pleasant in the extreme, Joe finds, to talk quietly with Nicky about nothing in particular as Nicky sautés mushrooms and garlic. He hands things to Nicky whenever he asks (which, he is pleased to note, is frequently, even when they’re very easily within Nicky’s reach) and gets his knuckles lightly rapped when he tries to sneak a slice of mushroom from the bowl of cooked ones. 

‘How does a man so clearly successful get so far in life without being able to cook?’ asks Nicky through a laugh after Joe describes his misadventures in making pancakes. There’s still batter on the ceiling, and seeing the curve of Nicky’s throat as he looked up at it was well worth having Nicky laugh at him again. 

‘You don’t need to be able to cook to write or paint,’ says Joe with a sniff. ‘Some people would even discourage the practice.’ 

‘Hungry people?’ asks Nicky, smirking at him. Joe, being a mature adult, sticks his tongue out at him. 

‘What about you?’ Joe tops up Nicky’s wine as he speaks, and tries to ignore the way his heart flutters at Nicky’s little grateful smile. ‘Do you like delivering packages?’ 

Nicky huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

‘Could anyone truly enjoy it?’ Joe tilts his head and frowns, but Nicky smiles at him again, shaking the pan confidently as he adds garlic to the last of the mushrooms. ‘I am studying to be an architect. I only do deliveries on Saturdays to make a little extra money.’ It fits the mental picture of Nicky Joe’s been building so much better, the stretch of his shoulders curved over a drafting table rather than the wheel of an ugly van. 

‘Have you always wanted to be an architect?’

Nicky shakes his head as he tips the mushrooms into the bowl with the others. He points at the chopping board with the shallots, and returns the pan to the heat with a fresh splash of olive oil. Joe hands over the board, and once Nicky has the shallots sweating, he continues. 

‘I’ve always liked architecture, but initially I was going to be a priest, if you can believe it,’ he says, pouring a generous splash of wine into the pan with a wild hiss. Joe can’t quite believe it, but he doesn’t interrupt. ‘But the longer I spent in seminary, the more out of place I felt. Eventually, the choice was taken from me when my _nonna_ got sick. I left to look after her, and then just never went back. When she passed, I had to decide what to do next. I was no longer interested in giving my life to the church, and Italy was too full of memory for me to stay there. So now I am here, for university, and hopefully for a new start.’ 

His voice is quiet and even as he speaks, no extraneous emotion, no self-pity, but Joe wants to either cry for him or hug him anyway. From the look Nicky gives him, it’s a desire that’s written all over his face. Nicky quirks a little smile at him, and empties a bag of arborio rice into the pan. 

‘It’s nothing to get worked up about,’ he says, stepping away from the pan briefly while the rice fries. He gathers a bowl, a grater, and a block of some kind of cheese from the breakfast bar, and presses them into Joe’s hands. ‘Can I trust you to stand beside me and grate some of this without grating your fingers?’ He draws a line over the cheese with the tip of his finger about a third of the way up the block, showing Joe how much he needs.

Joe nods as seriously as he can, and gets to work. Nicky ladles some of the stock into the pan, stirs it with great concentration, and then steps back to lean against the breakfast bar as it simmers. He starts speaking again, in a tone of laughing derision, but in quick and utterly incomprehensible Italian. 

‘If you’re going to insult me,’ begins Joe, refusing to turn around to face him, even though he’s never been more tempted by anything in his life. He’s determined not to embarrass himself doing something as simple as grating parmesan. ‘At least have the decency to do it in a language I understand.’

‘What languages do you speak?’ Nicky is laughing at him. Not audibly, but Joe can tell in the twist of his accent. 

‘English, Dutch, and Arabic.’ 

Without missing a beat, Nicky starts talking again, this time in fluent Dutch. 

‘A man so clearly talented as you has no excuse to be so useless in the kitchen that he must be supervised in grating cheese. It must be a handicap given to you by God, so as to give the rest of us a chance to catch up.’ 

Joe can’t help but tip his head back with the strength of his laugh. Something about hearing himself mocked and complimented in one, and in his mother tongue no less, just absolutely tickles him. 

Nicky is grinning when Joe looks at him again. He’s stepped back up to the pan to ladle in more stock, and he winks when Joe catches his eye. 

The kitchen is warm around them, and smells delicious. This is Joe’s home, and for as little as he uses it, he does actually know every inch of his kitchen inside and out. It feels new around him; the lights feel softer, the space is inviting rather than mildly intimidating. Nicky fits perfectly, like he was always meant to stand and smile in front of Joe’s cooker. It feels like he’s known him for years, they move so comfortably around each other. Added together, all the time he’s spent with Nicky prior to this evening, maybe, generously, adds up to an hour in total. It doesn’t matter. Joe’s little crush on the hot delivery guy is growing by the second, like a bright bubble of light in his chest. 

‘I managed it, didn’t I?’ demands Joe with a bright smile, gesturing at the bowl full of cheese and the conspicuous lack of blood and pain on his part. 

‘You did, I’m proud of you.’ Nicky’s smile is a tiny twitch of his lips and Joe is utterly obsessed with it. ‘Have a seat, and keep me company. There’s nothing more to do now but wait.’ He keeps stirring, adding the mushrooms back into the pot. Joe does as he’s told, settling at the breakfast bar and pulling his sketchbook towards himself from where he’s hidden it under his fruit bowl. 

Nicky rambles distractedly about a delivery he made earlier in the day as he finishes the risotto, and Joe splits his attention between laughing at Nicky’s story, watching his hands move as he adds butter and cream and cheese to the pan, and drawing in his sketchbook. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so content in his kitchen in the five years he’s lived here, and it occurs to him in a fleeting thought that he doesn't even know Nicky’s last name, and he’s brought him into his house like this. When Nicky asks, over his shoulder and casual, like he’s done it a thousand times before, Joe goes and fetches bowls and cutlery for them. Nicky portions out risotto, sprinkles little closed cap mushrooms and the last of the cheese over the top, and hands Joe’s bowl to him with another tiny smile. Joe takes Nicky’s bowl too, and leads him to the dining room. Nicky trails behind him a moment later, carrying their wine glasses and forks. 

Joe, in a fit of romance just before Nicky arrived, has already lit candles on the dining room table and set out his fanciest salt and pepper mills. If the evening had been less flirtatious, less comfortable, less anything, he would have kept Nicky in the kitchen and been as friendly as he could manage. Now, he regrets not doing more to impress him. Nicky doesn’t seem to mind though, judging by the way he brushes the tips of his fingers along the curve of Joe’s lower back after he sets down his glass. Joe pulls out Nicky’s chair for him, and they smile shyly at each other like blushing schoolboys. 

Now, Joe watched Nicky cook their dinner from start to finish. He knows it’s made with good ingredients, and a lot of clear skill. He also knows that it smells delicious and is likely to taste just as good as it smells. However, he’s also fully prepared to declare it the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, regardless of how it actually tastes. 

All his carefully prepared compliments and words of praise fly out of his mind as he takes his first bite, replaced with a moan he physically can’t restrain. He looks at Nicky in shock, his mouth still full with what actually _might_ be the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. Nicky’s face is bright red, and his eyes are very big as he stares right back at him, his own fork frozen in midair between his bowl and his open mouth. He attempts to convey his enjoyment of the risotto with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand, and Nicky finally closes his mouth and swallows hard, looking at his own bowl again, still with shockingly wide eyes. Joe would wonder at him, but he has more rich deliciousness to put in his face. 

He’s cleared half the bowl by the time he feels ready to speak again. Nicky’s sipping his wine when he looks up.

‘This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,’ says Joe, no thoughts, head empty. Nicky chokes on his wine and looks at him wildly. Joe pauses for a second, but barrels on regardless. There’s no way to come back from that; all he can do is lean into it. ‘I mean it. Nothing compares. This is delicious, _Nicolò_. You’re welcome in my kitchen _any time_.’ He lowers his voice to a purr, and smirks when Nicky’s blush gets that little bit brighter. 

Nicky takes a bite of his own meal in the most contrary fashion Joe’s ever witnessed someone eat something, and he can’t help but grin at him. It’s desperately clear that he’s just trying to buy time before he responds, and Joe just wants to bite his cheeks, he’s so cute. After chewing with deliberate slowness, Nicky finally responds. 

‘I’m glad you think so, Joe. I didn’t want your first introduction to my favourite meal to be whatever whittled down version Hello Fresh threw together.’ 

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Joe, stirring his food with his fork as casually as he can manage. He can’t quite bring himself to meet Nicky’s lovely eyes. ‘I think it would be nice to try it. Could be something fun to do. Together.’ 

When he does chance glancing up, Nicky’s smiling at his own plate. He’s clearly biting his lower lip, but even that isn’t enough to restrain his dimples. Joe grins helplessly at him. He wants to see every smile Nicky’s capable of, and he wants to keep them all for himself, tucked up next to his heart. 

Nicky takes a sip of wine, and clears his throat before he responds. When he does, it’s in Dutch, and his eyes seem to sparkle where they reflect the candlelight.

‘I would love that.’

—

They tidy the kitchen together, Nicky ignoring every single one of Joe’s protests. He also refuses point blank to take any of the leftovers home with him, pressing them back into Joe’s hands with a firm shake of his head and very simple instructions on how to heat them up with a little bit of milk. 

He excuses himself to use the bathroom before he leaves, in the quiet moments before his taxi arrives, and Joe takes the opportunity to hide a little something special in the pocket of his jacket. While Nicky had his back turned, finishing his risotto, Joe had sketched him out a little comic, just to give his hands something to do that wasn’t squeezing Nicky’s waist. He had torn it out and kept it folded in his pocket, waiting for just the right moment.

Tiny chibi Joe covers his face with his hands, little hearts floating around his head while tiny chibi Nicky waves a wooden spoon at him, little exclamation marks all around him. Underneath it, as a caption: _I hope he calls me - 07xxxxxxxxx._

Joe hopes Nicky finds it cute and not desperate, and also isn’t weirded out by Joe touching his things when he isn’t there, but that’s a problem for future Joe. Current Joe is pleasantly full, slightly tipsy, and utterly smitten. 

When Nicky comes back into the kitchen, Joe is very responsibly sipping a glass of water clear across the room from Nicky’s jacket. 

‘Thank you for letting me invade your kitchen,’ Nicky says, smiling his sweet little smile. Joe barks a laugh, and sets down his glass so he can step closer with no impediments. 

‘Invade my kitchen? Hardly an invasion, making me the most delicious meal I’ve ever had and providing me with hours of your delightful company.’ Nicky’s smile turns bashful, and Joe can’t do it anymore, he can’t resist for a single second longer. He reaches out and takes Nicky’s hand, squeezing it gently. Nicky, bless him, squeezes back immediately. They grin at each other in companionable silence for a moment, their hands held warm and tight between them. Joe hasn’t moved this slowly with someone he’s liked in years. He finds himself enjoying it more than he ever could have imagined. 

A car horn sounds from outside, muted by their distance from the road. Nicky looks rueful as he glances towards it, and Joe can’t help himself again. He steps forward, and brushes a kiss over Nicky’s cheek again. Nicky whips around to face him, bare inches between them.

‘Get home safe, _Nicolò,_ ’ whispers Joe into the tiny space. Nicky nods slowly. He squeezes Joe’s hand once more, and then leans forward to smudge his lips against Joe’s jaw. He’s so close now that Joe can feel the warmth of him from shoulder to knee. 

‘I’ll see you soon, Joe.’ 

He steps back and lets go of Joe’s hand. His fingertips trail gently over his palm as he does, and he doesn’t look away from Joe’s eyes until he’s let go of him completely. He scoops up his coat, and Joe walks him to the front door, smiling at him as he steps back into his shoes. Just as he did hours before, Joe finds himself slumping against the doorframe and sighing, this time with a disappointed edge that he didn’t find some perfect way to convince Nicky to stay with him. He knows why he couldn’t, and why he shouldn’t, but it would have been nice. He stays there long enough to wave goodbye as Nicky’s ride pulls away, and then he goes back inside. 

His house still smells fantastic, but the warmth isn’t all there anymore. Something is missing. Joe idly wanders around, blowing out candles, tidying away little bits here and there. He thinks Nicky had a good time, even though he did all the work, but only time will tell if he ever texts Joe, or if he gets someone else to cover Joe’s house on his delivery route from now on. 

In the kitchen, Joe sits at the breakfast bar again to finish his glass of water. His sketchbook is just where he left it, and he flicks it open, determined to sketch out the curve of Nicky’s smile before he loses the details. 

On the first blank page, in surprisingly delicate cursive, Nicky has written: _if you ever want another cooking lesson, I’m free on Thursdays - 07xxxxxxxxx ❤_

No one is around to see Joe punch the air in triumph, and he’d deny it if anyone was ever to ask, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you had fun! If you did, a kudos or comment if you have the spoons would mean the world to me c: 
> 
> Catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/raedear_writes) and [tumblr](https://raedear.tumblr.com)


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